


an empty space next to you (the shape of everything you need)

by viriditas



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Bakery AU: the poly edition, I was told to tag this as light angst, but? this is mostly nerds falling in love, now with added domesticity!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 09:39:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11354811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viriditas/pseuds/viriditas
Summary: “You’re back!” Gabe exclaims with a smile that’s half-thrilled and half-smug, and Tyson would very much like it if a car ran him over. He can only muster a weak “hi” back, and Nate looks so fucking delighted that Tyson is starting to question why he even puts up with him. “Welcome to Konditoriet!” He says now, eyes focused on Nate this time. “What can I get for you?”





	an empty space next to you (the shape of everything you need)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [johannas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/johannas/gifts).



 

Nate wakes up just in time for a heavy weight to knock the air out of his lungs. Groaning, he pushes what his fogged mind assumes is Tyson's arm out of the way and opens his eyes, blinking away the blind spots. His right arm reaches around the nightstand for a couple of moments until he finally gets a hold of his phone and squints at the white numbers—starkly and painfully contrasting his lock screen, which is still a picture of him and Tyson from the night they were named graduates of the University of Toronto, right where they first met, arms thrown around each other and gazes locked—telling him it's six am.

The first rays of sunshine are filtering through the window, and Tyson shifts, presses his body closer to Nate’s, whose lips curl up in a lazy grin as he wraps his arms around the smaller man, drops a kiss to the top of his head, and promptly falls back into a deep slumber.

___________________________

They rise a couple hours later and stumble their way to the bathroom in nothing but their underwear—brushing their teeth side by side as Tyson pokes him awake is still the highlight of Nate’s morning—and spend what feels like a lifetime but is probably closer to twenty minutes trading gentle kisses and washing each other in the shower. “To save water,” Tyson always says, and the words are usually paired with an eyebrow wiggle that prompts a groan from Nate every single time.

Walking back into their room only comes after the water runs cold, and once they haphazardly wrap the towels around their hips, it's Tyson holding onto Nate’s shoulders and pushing him along, loud laughter bursting out of him when Nate ends up colliding with the doorframe, distracted.

Tyson is the first to break the companionable silence that occupied the room as they dried off and dressed themselves, saying, "Hey, did you see the new bakery that opened up near my school? The one with the blue sign?” He pauses to yawn as he buttons up his shirt, then adds, “Calvin and Matt have said some amazing things about it. We should check that out before going to the Duchene’s house, eh?” Tyson smiles at Nate now, rows of pearly white teeth aligned in that wide grin that hasn’t failed to make his heart speed up ever since the first time he saw it, about to fall asleep on that dreaded eight am class so many years ago. From that moment on, he swore to make the beautiful man smile as often as he could, and Nate thinks he’s doing a pretty good job in that department.

"We _could_ do that,” Nate agrees, his eyes lingering on Tyson’s mouth, who bites his lower lip after hearing the inflection in the blonde’s voice. Now, it’s his turn to grin mischievously as he stops buttoning his own shirt. “Or— you could come _right_ here." He adds, pointing to where he’s standing on his side of the bed.

Tyson almost goes to him because Nate has at least three bad ideas a day, half of which tend to involve inappropriate use of time and-slash-or public property, but he manages to scrounge up some self-restraint. If he’s being honest, Tyson is glad that the number of bad ideas his boyfriend has had lowered as the years went by—he’s glad he’s no longer agreeing to spontaneous late- _late_ night outings or the occasional ghost hunt expedition, instead spending hours well past midnight grading when Nate decides it’s a great idea to cook pasta from scratch, like they even have the proper equipment for that—because he can’t, after all this time, say no to him. It’s like Nate’s superpower is the ability to know where to push, where to touch, to get Tyson on board.

"Nate,” Tyson says, “we deserve a treat before we have to deal with the pretentious fucks at that barbecue”—Tyson scrunches up his nose and Nate’s smile gets all soft around the edges—“and I really want something sweet.”

"What would Matt say if he heard you talk like this about Aunt Katie and Uncle Joe?” Nate asks, raising an eyebrow.

“He’d give me one of the fancy cupcakes he’s serving for dessert and tell me he loves me,” Tyson quips, quick to note the way Nate seems to light up at these words.

“Oh, but babe, _I_ can give you something sweeter.” Nate leers, which, unfortunately, is a pretty good look on him. At least, Tyson thinks it is, but then again, Tyson thought Nate looked amazing with long hair, despite everyone else saying it was tragic. Maybe he isn’t the most qualified to pass unbiased judgement.

“Nate!” Tyson groans as the blonde saunters over to his side of the bed, stopping right in front of him. “We are going to be _late_ ,” he starts, voice too soft to serve as a reprimand, and Nate wiggles his eyebrows and licks his lips. “Also, that line was awful, Jesus, what is even your _face_?” the older man adds, before honest-to-God squeaking as Nate leans down for a bruising kiss that leaves him flushed to his core, fingers tightly holding onto the front of the blonde’s half-buttoned shirt.

Nate’s hands that previously rested on his waist skim lower, gripping Tyson’s ass in a way that’s both playful and clear in its intentions; it’s a lot like how most things with Nate begins. “Nate,” Tyson exhales, voice subdued this time.

“Tyson,” Nate replies. He's so _easy_ for Nate it's embarrassing, Tyson thinks. The taller man laughs and drops to his knees, eyes on Tyson’s as his hands roam over the older man’s thighs, as he leans forward to mouth over Tyson’s black boxer briefs, and—

_Superpower_ , his rather unhelpful conscience provides.

_Yeah_ , Tyson thinks back.

They’re definitely skipping breakfast now.

 

* * *

 

The next Friday, Tyson exits Denver South High School with a spring in his step after he asks Nate to pick him up at the bakery just two blocks away. It’s the end of the week, which means that if he gets his work done tonight, he can spend the entire weekend decompressing from long days spent squabbling with parents over grades and trying to stop not one, but _two_ food fights that broke out between various sports teams. Tyson feels like he deserves a nap, Netflix, and some baked goods after getting hit in the arm with a slice of pizza yesterday.

In his arms, he holds a binder packed full of papers about Romeo and Juliet that he skimmed through during his planning period and, based on what he read, Tyson can only assume his future includes banging his head against the wall and wondering why he became a teacher at all. Eventually, he’ll come to his senses and realize that it’s only the beginning of the year and that his students have plenty of time to improve, and he’ll bite into one of those fucking _delectable_ cinnamon rolls Matt made him taste the day before. Maybe, if he’s feeling generous enough, he’ll let Nate have some.

(Which means he’s buying enough for both of them, but pretending they’re all for him.)

The blue sign that proclaims the name of the bakery is the first thing he sees when he approaches, the white lettering a stark contrast to it. The door opens swiftly once he pushes, and Tyson walks inside the bakery, absorbing the warmth that emanates from the bakery’s setup: wooden tables and chairs scattered from the windows to the pastry displays, filled to the brim with sweets that look incredibly tempting. His eyes catch on the menu—hand-written in charming cursive—and he spies a few lattes that Nate would definitely like. Lately, they’ve been making do with the coffee maker they bought on sale a couple of years ago, but the piece of shit (which might as well be its official name, at this point) has taken to only producing black coffee that tastes similar to how Nate’s bathroom science experiments smell. This means they only drink from it when absolutely necessary.

Tyson can imagine them here together, grading papers or just talking, hanging out and enjoying each other’s company. This bakery has a perfect noise level: just enough chatter to keep it from feeling cold, but not so loud that it’d distract Tyson from misplaced commas and sentence fragments. Plus, they’d be in public, so the likelihood of Nate suggesting activities that require a lot less clothing and a lot more noise is lower, if only by a fraction. _It’d be just like our cafe dates right when we started seeing each other_ , Tyson muses, and for a second he’s caught up in memories of Nate tucking Tyson’s hair behind his ear, of Nate pulling a chair out and gesturing grandly for Tyson to take a seat, of Nate holding Tyson’s hand over the table for the first time, of Nate snorting and laughing so hard he ended up spilling coffee all over himself.

Tyson is shaken out of his daydreams—it’s embarrassing how, after all of these years, Nate is still the main protagonist in most of them—when he hears steps coming from behind the counter, along with a low humming. The first thing his eyes rest on is a frankly impressive ass framed by a pair of dark blue jeans ( _Jesus_ , does he get them tailored?), and when he guides his eyes upwards, there’s a plain black shirt stretched across an equally impressive back. Tyson can see the straps of a blue apron around his neck and a golden head of hair that he would like to run his hands through. The man is stacking baguettes on a display, and his hands move with ease through the motions, and holy _shit_ , his arms look good with the long sleeves rolled up to the elbows.

Once he’s done, he turns around and— _whoa_. Tyson’s face-to-face with someone he could argue is in his top five most beautiful people he’s ever encountered.

“Welcome to _Konditoriet_!” the stunning man says, and the foreign word sounds sweet in his mouth. His smile is welcoming, and Tyson can feel his ears tingling, probably going pink. “How can I help you today?”

Tyson panics for a second, eyes drifting over the white name tag attached to one of the straps on the handsome man’s apron. It says _Gabe :)_ in blue marker. _Cinnamon rolls_ , his mind whispers helpfully. _You have to get cinnamon rolls to take home._

“Cinnamon rolls?” Tyson manages, mentally smacking himself over the questioning tone. “I would like eight cinnamon rolls, please,” he amends quickly. The skin beneath Tyson's collar feels hot and his ears are definitely, definitely red.

The smile on the man’s face doesn’t waver; in fact, it seems to grow wider, and Tyson feels like he needs to lie down for a second. It’s probably illegal to go out and about looking like this man does. If it isn’t, it should be. “Anything else?” he asks.

_Cinnamon rolls to take home_ , his mind repeats. “Can I get you home?” Tyson blurts out. It takes a second for his brain to catch up with his mouth, and now, Tyson wishes lightning would strike him. Or at least for the floor to open up and bury him alive to end his suffering. The heat is spreading up his neck, more likely than not coloring his cheeks an obnoxious shade of red. “I mean— can I get the cinnamon rolls to take home? _Please_.”

His voice is strained, and Tyson stares in absolute mortification as the blonde man _winks_ at him and nods before turning around to do whatever it is he needs to, to get the pastries packed. Tyson drops his head back and stares at the ceiling, praying that Nate won’t leave him waiting by the curb for long. There is _no way_ he’s staying inside after this.

Tyson pays and tries not to cringe as the hot cashier Gabe hands him a blue bakery box to stack on top of his binders. He avoids Gabe’s eyes as he stuffs the leftover dollar bill in the tip jar, wondering if the motion was stilted, wondering if he looks gawky in front of the dainty cake displayed on the front counter, wondering if he reeks of embarrassment. He doesn’t know if he should apologize for what he said or keep his mouth shut so he doesn’t make a fool of himself again.

"Here’s your cinnamon rolls," the blonde man says, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Tyson is considering going home and hiding under his comforter, never to speak again, work and everything be damned. "Hope they get home safe." His tone is playful. He combs a hand through his—soft-looking and luscious, what the _fuck_ —hair.

Tyson blinks a few times, hyperfocused on the way the light seems to catch on Gabe’s hair for a moment and _oh_ , he has to speak now, how rude and mildly creepy of him to be like this. He tries to think of something, _anything_ to redeem himself. “Yeah, thanks for the well wishes,” comes out instead, and there goes all hope of coming back to this bakery. Why did he say that? He tacks on a short farewell that’s irredeemably high-pitched and hightails it out of the place, nevermind that Nate hasn’t texted him to say he’s waiting outside.

There’s no way he’s loitering in front of the window where Gabe, smile and all, has a clear view of him, so he leans against the adjacent brick wall instead. A grey cat is lounging on the sidewalk, stretched out with no care for the world, eyes closed as he soaks up the warmth of the sun, but as soon as he senses Tyson near, he fixes his eyes on the brunette. “ _Shoo_ ,” Tyson whispers, shaking his left foot in the cat’s direction.

The cat just continues to stare at him, bright green eyes conveying what feels like all the judgement in the world. “Don’t you fucking dare,” Tyson hisses, eyes narrowing. He didn’t go through all of _that_ just to get judged by a stray cat.

The cat turns away, like Tyson isn’t worth a second of its time, and gives its paw a delicate lick.

 

* * *

 

The problem is that the pastries are good. _Really_ good. So good that, if Tyson wasn’t going through the five stages of grief, he would be going there every single day. But… there is no way he is setting a foot on that bakery again. The considerably larger issue is, Nate has just as much of a sweet tooth as he does, he thinks what happened is hilarious—he had tears in his eyes after Tyson spilled and told him what happened, the asshole—and he really wants to go see what the fuss is about.  

So, it's only one week post-tragedy ( _you’re so dramatic,_ interrupts some voice in his head that sounds oddly like Nate’s) that he sets foot in the bakery, praying to whatever God is up there for Gabe the hot cashier (and possible _baker;_ he remembers seeing what looked like flour specked at random on his blue apron) isn’t there.

“I hate you,” Tyson tells Nate as he pushes open the door to the bakery. “I hate you so much.” He squints at the taller man, who smiles back at him, pulls on their linked hands, and brings him close to his chest, swiftly wrapping an arm around Tyson’s waist once they’re inside.

“You _wound_ me, babe,” he says, voice smug in the way it gets when he wins something, whether it’s a shove fight over who gets the last slice of pizza or him making Tyson agree to whatever dumb idea he has. “I thought you loved me!”

“What _ever,_ ” Tyson half-heartedly shoves Nate off him while trying not to laugh. Nate only holds him tighter, pressing a noisy kiss to the top of of his head.

There are a couple of customers waiting for their orders and more people scattered around the tables this time, Tyson notes, and there’s a fleeting moment of hope when he sees that the man making two coffee cups behind the counter isn’t the same one he encountered last time. Tyson would now like to thank God, or whatever deity that restored balance in the world, not only for for saving him the embarrassment, but also for giving him the opportunity to be right for once.

This hope is soon squashed by what feels like Thor’s mythological hammer because it’s the same guy—Gabe—who walks from the back of the store, holding a pan overflowing with cookies that smell of vanilla and sugar. He maneuvers around the other blonde (is that a requirement to work here?) with ease, then slides the cookies onto one of the display racks in a matter of seconds.

“Is that him?” Nate whispers, eyes widening. The line moves forward; only one person lies between them once the cashier, whose nametag has _Carl_ scrawled beside a badly drawn crown, finishes packing the coffees he was making.

Lowly, Nate says, “Holy _shit_ ,” and Tyson feels like screaming ‘I _told_ you so’ directly in his face, no fewer than ten times.

“Please don’t make me do this,” Tyson mumbles, slouching and tucking his face on the crook of Nate’s neck.

“We’re already in line, and the slightly scary looking dude saw us; we can’t leave,” Nate says back, and he doesn’t sound remorseful at all. “Don’t worry, I’ll order.”

Tyson straightens his back once Nate elbows him forward, and Tyson says a quick prayer that Carl acts as their server, but he must have really pissed the universe off at some point. Carl pats Gabe on the shoulder and says, “Be back in fifteen.” He disappears from the shopfront, leaving a smiling Gabe in front of the register.

There’s a flash of recognition in his eyes and Tyson thinks, _oh, I’m_ fucked. He also mentally formulates a plan, and multiple backup plans, that include killing Nate and getting rid of the body. Calvin would help him out. English teachers are tight like that.

“You’re back!” Gabe exclaims with a smile that’s half-thrilled and half-smug, and Tyson would very much like it if a car ran him over. He can only muster a weak “hi” back, and Nate looks so fucking _delighted_ that Tyson is starting to question why he even puts up with him. “Welcome to _Konditoriet_!” He says now, eyes focused on Nate this time. “What can I get for you?”

“We wanted more of those cinnamon rolls,” Nate answers. He’s smart enough to know that if he forces Tyson to speak, he’ll be sleeping on the couch indefinitely. “Ten, please. To go.” His eyes are glinting with humor, and Tyson now wants to throw _him_ under a moving car instead.

“Coming right up.” He rings them up and offers a smile when Nate shoves a few bills into the tip jar, then turns his back on them to fill the order.

Nate raises his eyebrows and widens his eyes once the blonde man’s facing away, clearly trying to communicate _do you see what I’m seeing?_ and _holy shit, he's hot, you were right_ , lips quirked in that leer that is so familiar and so _him_ that it makes Tyson’s chest warm. He lets out a soft laugh and elbows the taller man in the ribs.

Nate grunts in response and grumbles under his breath about having a “really mean boyfriend,” frowning in that particular way he does when he’s being a little shit, but he tightens his grip on Tyson’s waist, too, so Tyson can safely assume that he’s forgiven. He plants a quick kiss on Nate’s lips, who beams in return, and he feels the familiar tingle that runs down his spine whenever he gets to make the younger man smile. 

 

* * *

 

 “Hey, dude,” Tyson says, mostly casual, once the line moves forward and it's his turn to order. He's proud to say that he’s (mostly) overcome the mortification of their first encounter after countless visits to the bakery— now, Nate and him both are familiar enough to know that the shop belongs to Gabe and Carl, and that Gabe is the baker while Carl is the barista extraordinaire. The four of them have a mutually beneficial arrangement: the store owners use Nate and Tyson as taste testers for new sweets and beverages, Nate and Tyson provide their honest feedback, and, granted they enjoy the treat, they get to keep it for free. It’s the best deal Tyson’s made since the day he agreed to move in with Nate, really.

“Hey, Tyson,” Gabe replies, his smile going soft, more natural and less I’ve-been-working-through-the-Saturday-lunch-rush. Tyson can’t help but smile right back at him. “You’re here earlier than usual. What can I get for you today?”

“Nate and I are having a very fun, fucking _amazing_ grading party,” Tyson replies, tacking on a sarcastic cheer. “Midterms are closing in on us, and he keeps being a little shit at home, so here we are. Can I get two cappuccinos, and two of those pastries we tried last time? The vanilla ones?” He adds, not even attempting to pronounce the name on a small blue label on the glass display—he still can’t speak French after years of taking it in school, there is _no way_ he’s trying his hand at Swedish so casually. Tyson points to the pastries in question when Gabe’s eyes don’t light up in recognition.

“Oh, _Vaniljhjärtan_?” Gabe inquires, the foreign syllables sounding sweet from his lips. “Vanilla hearts, for you.”

“Vanilla hearts,” Tyson repeats dutifully, because he can handle that much.

Gabe shoots him a grin. “I’ll bring them out to you in a minute,” he says, eyes scanning the filled tables. Once he spots Nate, he waves, the same soft smile from earlier showing up again. Tyson gives Nate a little wave, too, but Nate misses it— he’s staring at the menu again because he has no self-control. Tyson scoffs and turns back to Gabe.

“Are you guys staying late again?” Gabe asks, and he waits for Tyson’s nod before he continues. “I feel like going out to eat tonight— remember how I told you Mikko was going to start opening on Sundays?”

“Oh, right,” Tyson says. “Yeah. Must be nice, getting to sleep in three days of the week.”

Gabe huffs out a laugh; this conversation’s a well-worn path by now. Tyson would _kill_ for Gabe’s work schedule. Gabe chooses not to give Tyson any footing today. “As I was saying: Carl over there”—he gestures towards the man that’s scraping spilled jelly off the countertop and raises his voice enough to be heard—“has a _hot date_ , so he won’t come out with me.” Tyson doesn’t know a lick of Swedish, but whatever Carl shouts sounds vulgar. Gabe doesn’t blink. “You guys want in?”

He even waggles his eyebrows, as if they need any sort of convincing to hang out with their favorite baker, and Tyson can’t help but giggle— and it’s the giggle that Tyson hates, _of course_ , the one where he ends up snorting. Nate says it’s endearing, but Gabe isn’t Nate, even if he seems a little amused on the other side of the counter. Tyson collects himself and peeks at Nate.

“I’ll pay,” Gabe offers, which only sweetens the deal. Tyson raises his brows. “I made the reservation a few days ago, and it _was_ for two”—another look sent over his shoulder, but Carl flaps a hand this time, hardly bothered—“but I’m sure adding one more won’t be a problem.”

_One more won’t be a problem_ , Tyson thinks. He stares at Nate for a few more seconds, then faces Gabe and nods. “We want to finish the bulk of our grading today, so we’ll be around for a while. When’s the reservation?”

“Six,” Gabe says.

“Six it is.” Tyson taps the counter twice, like a gavel closing out a meeting, and glances at the kitchen doors behind Gabe. Nate might be lacking in self-control, but Tyson’s twice, three times as bad, especially where sweets are concerned. Gabe smiles a little, like he already knows what Tyson’ll say before he opens his mouth. Still, he waits for Tyson to ask first.

Tyson sighs. “Might as well bring out a few cinnamon rolls, too.”

Gabe grins. “Might as well,” he agrees.

 

* * *

 

Between small talk at the register, the occasional shared dinner, and the times Gabe’s had the chance to pull up a chair during dead hours at the bakery, they’ve learned bits and pieces about Gabe: his favorite dessert, the way he prefers his coffee, whether he’s a cat or a dog person, and, most important of all, his taste in hockey teams. More specifically, they’ve learned about his inability to pick a favorite when it comes to NHL teams—”I just liked them all growing up,” the Swede claimed—and, as Canadians, Nate and Tyson found that frankly offensive. They took it upon themselves to show him the wonders of the local team they decided to adopt as their own since moving to Colorado.

So, here they are during the second intermission of a truly nerve-wracking game with the Avs leading with one goal against the Philadelphia Flyers, talking over fries and a couple of beers.

“And, there I am in my friend's room doing homework, talking about hockey with him; you know, usual _guy stuff_ ”—Tyson takes a moment to steal some of Nate’s fries, paying no attention to the blonde’s squawk of protest—“and suddenly, he gives me these intense eyes and _bam_! We’re kissing, and it's great… until his older brother walks into the room,” Tyson says, and Gabe strains to hear his words over the noise at the Pepsi Center. “And I realize _wow_ , I liked that too much, and this is something I don't want to hide so I just… quit and focused on school instead.”

“Was it hard?” Gabe asks, eyes drifting to Tyson's mouth briefly once the older man smiles, but he meets Tyson’s gaze quickly after. Nate looks lost in thought, but he’s probably heard this story about a million times, so Tyson doesn't feel too offended.

“I mean… not really? I love hockey, but I always had fun at school, too,” Tyson replies, and he doesn’t look beaten up about it. “It did suck that I had to make that choice, though. It's stupid, the fact that the league claims to support us, but I mean, we all know I wouldn't have made it if I was out.”

“What about your friend?” Gabe inquires, voice curious.

“He _did_ make it to the NHL, actually. If he's in town for long enough, we hang out,” Tyson states, looking at Nate from the corner of his eye and laughing softly. “He still says I would've been drafted higher than he was.”

“Hold on, so you're telling me that you, Mr. Sidney-Crosby-Signed-My-Stick-Over-There”—Nate makes an attempt to reach over Tyson to shove Gabe out of his seat, ultimately failing, and Gabe smiles at him—“and me could've made it to the big leagues, and I’m _just_ finding out?”

“Hey, we’re full of surprises, man,” Tyson shoots back, and Nate’s heart squeezes at the impossibly fond look Gabe is sending the brunette. “We could've played on the same team and all,” he adds.

“I don't know about that,” Nate says, “but if I didn't like science as much as I do, I would've been drafted higher than both of you.”

Tyson throws an elbow in response to that, and Gabe groans, probably trying to appear put-off, but mostly just looking like he’s having the time of his life. It doesn’t take much more for the game to start up again after that, but it’s just enough time for Tyson and Gabe to make fun of Nate being a nerd, and for Nate to shoot back that _Tyson_ ’s clearly the nerd— that he owns _reading glasses_. Gabe barks out a laugh, and Tyson watches a bright grin stretch across Nate’s face in response. He watches, then watches some more.

_This is nice_ , Tyson thinks, the warm weight of Nate’s arms around his shoulders and Gabe’s legs bouncing mere centimetres of his own. On the ice, gloves are dropped, and Gabe and Nate yell out in unison while Tyson munches on the fries that he stole from Nate’s hands and watches on, enraptured. _This is very nice_.

 

* * *

 

The thing is, Nate and Tyson have always had their own bubble, in a way. One of their favorite things to do is spend time together, plain and simple—sometimes chatting, sometimes grading homework side by side silently—it doesn’t matter. Just Tyson’s presence is enough to set Nate at ease, and it’s been a while since they relied on words only for communication. They’re long past the days of stumbling upon new common ground; they know each other too well for that, now.

Despite all of this—despite all of the days they’ve spent swapping stories and favorites, despite all of the times they’ve lied awake at night wondering about everything from their next silverware set to life on Mars— there have always been areas outside of that combined safe space. There are things they don’t think to mention, some spaces they never see enough to consider filling them— and it’s in those places that Gabe somehow manages to sneak in, blinding smile taking up his face.

It shouldn’t be such a big deal. Honestly, it isn’t. Gabe’s fun, he’s supportive, he’s their friend and he fits in so seamlessly it makes Nate wish they had met sooner.

Nate remembers going to Ikea with Gabe to buy a new kitchen table. His heart fluttered when they managed to find the perfect fit: a table small enough for their cramped kitchen, yet big enough for three table settings.

But—there’s also the fact that Gabe keeps staring at Tyson like he hung the moon, like he’s better than _vanilla ice cream_ , and Nate— Nate notices. Nate notices Tyson looking back at him, sometimes. He’s so painfully aware of Tyson, knows all the ways his body reacts to the world, how he looks when he’s happy, when he’s sad, when he’s in _love_.

He’s becoming all too aware of Gabe, too.

Nate squashes that train of thought fast, hides its remains in the back of his brain, thinks of Tyson and Tyson only, instead. There’s no way—

(Nate’s unaware that, just a few days ago, Tyson came home late from a parent-teacher conference, and there were two coats hung up on the rack by the door. Tyson stared at the only available hook, thinking that it looked pretty imposing for an inanimate object, and after he draped his coat over it, he stared some more. Then he left to reheat a plate of spaghetti, wondering why a full _coat rack_ made his heart beat a little faster.

Nate is unaware that there _is_ a way.)

 

* * *

 

“Fuck, it’s so late,” Gabe says after checking his phone for the first time in hours. It’s grueling, forcing his body to sit up after however much time spent sprawled on the chaise lounge. He’s been at the Mackinnon-Barrie household since lunchtime when an impromptu _Friends_ marathon was decided, and it’s now just past one am, which isn’t _terrible_ by his standards, but— he always tries to be home earlier, whenever it comes to seeing Nate and Tyson at their place.

It’s not that he doesn’t like hanging out with them, no. It’s exactly the opposite. He likes it too much, surely more than he should. But it’s different from seeing Nate and Tyson in his bakery, or in a bar across the city; it’s seeing them in this space that screams _theirs,_ from the pictures on the wall to the throw blanket on their biggest couch, from the fridge magnets to the way Tyson curls up under Nate’s arm.

It’s seeing them and not being able to quench the guilt at the bottom of his stomach when he wishes he could be the one kissing Nate, the one kissing Tyson. The one holding them and getting to see them first thing in the morning.

_If there’s something worse than falling in love with two different people, it’s having them date each other instead_ , he thinks, and he hates himself a little for letting things get _this_ out of hand.

His words are met with the instant protest of both Tyson and Nate, who turn their eyes from the TV to him. “I should leave,” Gabe says.

“Hey, you can stay over,” Nate offers, turning to look at Tyson. Gabe’s breath gets stuck in his throat, his mind in overdrive—he’s ashamed to even admit to thinking about Nate and Tyson inviting him into their bed, and even more ashamed to admit he’d settle for that if it meant getting to have _them_ for at least a couple of hours, maybe a full night—but not for long enough, since Tyson nods and is quick to add, “Yeah, we have a spare mattress in our other room. We should’ve bought a bed for it ages ago.” It makes Gabe’s heart squeeze, but it also allows him him breathe easier.

_It was too good to be true, anyway_ , he thinks. Then, he says, “Oh, no, no, I would hate to—” and is interrupted by Nate aiming a pillow at him, hitting him square in the face with startling accuracy.

“Nonsense,” the blonde man says, and Tyson looks extremely amused by the indignant face Gabe is sure he’s pulling.  “We still have like six episodes for this season to end, we can set that up later,” he finishes, tone resolute.

“Stay?” Tyson adds, sounding hopeful.

His heartbeat resembles a marching drum when he says, “ _Fine_ , I’ll stay,” and thinks about how, if they asked him, he’d steal the moon for them. They high five, smiling widely first at each other and then at him. Gabe takes one deep breath, trying to collect himself when he adds, “I promise to make breakfast tomorrow,” while smiling helplessly. He’s so easy for them, dammit.

Gabe doesn’t know if it’s better or worse for him that both Tyson and Nate look absolutely delighted after he promises to stay.

 

* * *

 

Tyson gets the text while he and Nate are in the middle of lazily making out in their sofa, some National Geographic documentary muted in the background for what has probably been the better part of an hour. He digs around for his phone, ignoring Nate’s discontented grunts  about being moved around when he's so comfortable with Tyson’s body on top of his.

Making a triumphant noise, Tyson holds the phone in his left hand and half sits on top of Nate, quickly unlocking his phone. “Gabe’s not coming,” the brunette says, brows furrowed after having reading the words on the screen. “His overnight baker got sick or some shit, what even.”

“That sucks,” Nate says empathetically, nose scrunching up. He wouldn’t admit it aloud, but he was really looking forward to Gabe coming home. Not that he— not that it’s his home. _Fuck_. He throws a guilty glance at Tyson, who remains blissfully unaware of Nate’s whirring mind, and makes a move to pull the older man down again. Tyson plops against his chest with a squeak, flattening his hands on Nate’s chest to break his fall. There’s a steak commercial on now, and Nate realizes how hungry he is. “Well— what are you going to cook, then?”

Tyson frowns at him, and Nate thinks _oh, no_ , this can’t be good. “Do _I_ have to cook?”

“I mean,” Nate says slowly, “I cooked last night. We agreed on alternating nights forever ago.” Tyson just stares at him, so Nate lifts his chin— he’s given into that face before, and before he knew it, he’d done the dishes every night for a month. “Plus, we both know it was going to be you helping Gabe do his magic food thing, not me. So.”

Tyson pulls back, brows furrowed and eyes a little hurt, and for a moment Nate wishes he could rewind and take back what he said— but even if he took it back, it would still technically be Tyson’s night to cook. Granted, there have been one or two times where they’ve shared duties or swapped them after a long day, but they’ve spent most of the day lazing around and paying bills.

“Well,” Tyson says, and again Nate thinks _oh, no_ , “I don’t feel like cooking today.” He wrestles his way out of Nate’s hold, which stings a lot more than Nate’s willing to admit. Tyson’s socked feet make no noise as they land flat on the floor; he takes a few soundless steps away from Nate, arms crossed tight over his chest. Nate watches him as it comes together— Tyson copping an attitude not a moment after Gabe’s cancelled, Tyson _always_ getting grumpy when plans with Gabe don’t work out. He doesn’t want to cook tonight, Nate knows, because he won’t be cooking with Gabe. At that realization, something wicked bubbles up from the pit of his stomach.

Nate wants to hear Tyson admit it, too. “Why’s that?” he asks, moving to sit upright. “We _agreed_ on this; you know neither of us like to cook.”

“Look, can’t we just order in?” Tyson asks, voice placating. Nate raises an eyebrow and mimics Tyson’s posture, crossing his arms over his own chest.

“You didn’t let me order in last night, Tyson,” Nate replies, defensive. “Something about wanting homemade stuff for a change, remember?” Tyson groans after hearing his words, and Nate now feels the unease settle over him like a new layer on his skin. His mind flips to all the warning signs he’s ignored— Gabe’s fond gazes, Tyson’s shy smiles, and he’s watched them hang onto each other’s words. He didn’t want to worry about it then. He doesn’t want to worry about it now.

Nate stands up and takes the few steps towards the door, not responding to Tyson’s complaints and half-started sentences. “I’m going for a walk,” he says. He doesn’t know what time it is, but he pats himself down for his phone without thinking; it’s in the front pocket of his track pants. It only takes him a few seconds to slip on his shoes, snatch his keys from the hooks by the door, and pull the closest jacket off the coat rack. It’s too heavy for the weather. He steps outside anyway.

___________________________

“I don't want to fight,” Nate says, after what was probably an hour of brooding around town, and a walk home kicking himself for leaving like that. He steps deeper into their bedroom after his eyes adjust to the low lighting. His voice is strained as he sits down right next to the Tyson-shaped lump under the covers. The lights are on, so he knows Tyson’s awake. “I don't know _why_ we’re fighting about something like food, for fuck’s sake.” He swallows around the lump in his throat, ignoring the tiny voice at the back of his mind that calls him out on his bullshit. He knows exactly why this happened and he can’t fight it any longer.

It takes Tyson a couple of moments to push the covers back, and Nate lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “I'm not sure either, but… It’s late. We should eat something, then go to bed and talk about it tomorrow.”

“Yeah, we can get a pizza or something.” Tyson nods along, and Nate’s voice lilts with hope when he says, “What if we go for a hike? We haven't done that in a long time.” The last time they went was months ago, probably a couple of weeks before Tyson went to Konditoriet for the first time. He remembers the way Tyson’s back felt pressed against his front as they found some shade mid-hike to cool down. He remembers the pure joy on Tyson’s face even when he complained about how gross and sweaty Nate was. The day had been so beautiful it felt like a promise of good times to come, maybe even new beginnings.

Nate isn’t so sure this is what he had in mind when he thought of that the first time on the drive home, one hand on the steering wheel and the other on Tyson’s knee.

“It's a date,” Tyson says, grabbing hold of Nate’s arm so he can sit up without much effort. There’s a small smile playing at the corner of his lips, and Nate can breathe easier now.

 

* * *

 

The sun is barely shining on them in the early morning as they follow the hiking trail around the lake, the only noises being the crunch of their sneakers against the pavement and their sparse chatter, gentle chirps and playful shoves despite the thickness of the air around them. It’s been awhile since they made the drive all the way to Sloan Lake Park—probably ever since their weekends stopped being Nate-and-Tyson’s and started being Nate-and-Tyson-and-Gabe’s—but it’s as if nothing’s changed. Tyson still tries to get Nate to give him a piggy back ride; Nate still attempts to throw the older man over his shoulder and carry him around the trail.

Nate still thinks, after years of knowing each other, that the best thing about them is how easy they clicked when they first met as young, wide-eyed college students pursuing the same dream with different approaches— how effortless it was to understand each other right from the start. It was as easy as breathing, weaving intricate patterns into each other’s lives. He’s never been so grateful for that as he is now, sitting next to Tyson, their backs against a sturdy tree that overlooks the clear water. Birds coo gently around them.

It’s silent as they catch their breath, neither of them knowing exactly how to start the next conversation— Tyson isn’t even entirely certain what the conversation’s supposed to be _about_. Nate brings his left leg closer and reaches over to tie his shoelaces, and Tyson is looking at him from the corner of his eye. Nate can feel the older man’s gaze but refuses to acknowledge it, focusing on his shoelaces instead, fingers so clumsy that he has to go and redo them more than once. That action doesn’t take more than a minute, though, and Nate can hear Tyson clear his throat a couple of times, so he rearranges his body more comfortably against the tree and turns to look at the older man. He feels suffocated, the same way he does when he knots his tie too close to his throat, or when students rally around his desk after class. The only difference is that there, at school, Tyson has all of the answers—he knows how many words he wants the essay to be, he knows how to help struggling students interpret a prompt—and here, Tyson feels lost.

"Do you think that Gabe—?” Tyson starts, not being able to stand more of the tension around them. His right hand searches for Nate’s left and, when he finds it, he holds on tight. He sounds nervous; his voice shakes before he cuts himself off. Nate remembers Tyson’s face, beet red as he asked Nate out for coffee, combing a hand through his messy curls and smiling so brightly—the memory blindsides him for a second, like it happened yesterday and not nine years ago. “Do you think that he— _us_ —?”

Nate ponders over the word _us_ for a brief moment, mind in overdrive. He swallows and does his best to not let it show that his entire stomach is tied in knots by squeezing Tyson’s hand. "I mean… I don’t know about me, but—” He feels like screaming; his words are sticking to his throat, not rolling off his tongue like he needs them to.

"I'm not tired of you,” Tyson is quick to say, eyes fixed on Nate’s. “Never, you know that, right? I _love_ you.” There’s an edge of desperation in his voice now, and Nate’s heart seizes. He can’t believe he ever doubted Tyson. “It's just—”

“The way he looks at you,” Nate finishes for him, gazing at the lake for a moment before he focuses on Tyson again. “He looks at you the way I do,”—he takes a deep breath—“and I don’t want to get in the way of that. As much as I want to be a part of it.”

He sounds one second away from breaking, and Tyson feels like crying because Nate thinks he’s gone unseen by Gabe and Tyson, thinks he’s been pushed aside, and because there’s hope building up inside of him. “Dude, have you _noticed_ how he looks at you, too?” the older man asks, pulling Nate closer.

And just like that, the heaviness in the air dissipates, and Nate can mostly breathe again. “What do you mean _looks at me_?” the blonde questions, cautious.

Tyson starts laughing, but he’s silenced by Nate jabbing his index finger against his ribs. “You are so fucking _dense_. Do you remember when we went to that hockey game and you were talking about that one time you met _Sidney Crosby_?” Tyson does his—questionable but mostly accurate—impression of Nate’s high pitched voice when mentioning his favorite player and stops for a moment, laughter bubbling up inside him once again. “ _God_ , the way he was looking at you, I thought I was starting to go insane.”

Nate frees his hand from Tyson’s grip just to wrap that arm around the older man, a smile crinkling the corners of his mouth. “Really?” he asks.

Tyson says, “Yeah, _really_ ,” and yelps when Nate leans over to bite his cheek.

“You were always the smart one out of the two of us,” Nate concedes, kissing over the same spot he bit into a few seconds ago. “Should we tell him?”

“I think _we_ should think about it first. Maybe do some research; I know you love that.”

“When it comes to academic things,” Nate retorts, but finds himself nodding. “We should look into that, later. Now, though—” Nate pauses and Tyson raises and eyebrow, silently telling him to continue. Nate decides to lean down and plant one big, loud kiss against the brunette’s cheek, quickly followed by another kiss, this time on the lips, soft as the first one they ever shared, both of them holding onto each other as if their lives depend on it.

 

* * *

 

The only problem: they’re _terrible_ at figuring out how to tell Gabe.

“Tyson, Tyson!” Nate shakes the brunette’s shoulder, his voice tone on the side of too fucking obnoxious and loud at ass o’clock. Tyson immediately sits up, though, left hand reaching blinding for his phone.

“What the _fuck_ , Nate,” he croaks out, after checking the hour on his phone. “It's fucking two am on a Saturday, loser.” Tyson lies back down again after reaching over to pull Nate with him.

“I know how to do this!” the blonde exclaims, and Tyson wonders if he did end up having that second cup of coffee he _promised_ he wouldn’t take.

“Do _what_?” Tyson wishes Nate could see his judging eyes in the dark of the room.

“Telling Gabe, you dumbass,” Nate replies, condescending as all shit, and Tyson feels like smacking his forehead.

“Nate, were you on Pinterest again?” Tyson asks and receives nothing but silence in return. “You _know_ we can’t do the shit on there!” He groans now, blindly reaching over to tug at Nate’s short hair.

Nate whines in protest, but doesn't move from Tyson’s arms. “Hear me out. You know those cute promposals, right? With the cupcakes? We could get some and have them spell ‘date us’!”

“Nate, I think you need to stop hanging out with your senior students so much. Also, we can't bake.”

“We could buy—”

“Shh.”

“Tyson—”

Tyson shushes him again, and Nate falls silent, his breaths huffing out against Tyson’s collarbone. Despite how tired Tyson feels, sleep evades him for some time, but it’s always harder to measure the minutes in a dark room. Because it feels weird to fall asleep without saying so, Tyson whispers, “Love you.”

Nate’s still awake; Tyson could tell that by his breathing alone. “You, too,” he says.

___________________________

The ideas only seem to get worse from there.

“What if we got him roses?” Tyson murmurs, watching Gabe walk off after refilling their mugs, eyes drifting to the dip right before his ass. “To thank him,” he adds, wistfully. “For that ass. And that face. And his personality.”

Nate swats at Tyson with a rolled-up lab report from one of his students, but there’s amusement in his eyes when he turns his gaze towards the older man. “Tyson, we went over this: gifts were banned by _you._ We need to talk to him. Let him know we’re in for real, not just in for the ass.”  

“But I got you roses on our first date!” Tyson argues, eyes back on his laptop screen, fingers quick over the keyboard as he keeps on writing what Nate thinks is the test he’ll hand out in the following week. “Not many, because I was broke, but—”

“I know, and I loved you for it,” Nate says with a fond grin. “But you’d already asked me out; it wouldn’t work now.”

“You’re right,” Tyson sighs, shaking his head. “Roses are too forward. There must be some other flower—”

Nate cuts him off again and digs his pen into Tyson’s thigh. “Communication,” he states, voice still hushed but resolute.

“ _Fine_ ,” Tyson grumbles, wrinkling his nose.

 

* * *

 

After circling through really terrible ideas that neither Nate nor Tyson are proud to admit were once considered—like renting a rink ( _expensive_ ) or latte art ( _unrealistic_ )—they settle on an old classic, the one that should have been obvious from the start: dinner and a quiet night in.

“Hmm… That smells amazing,” Nate says, walking behind Tyson and wrapping his arms around the smaller man. “I wish you'd cook like this more often.” He hides a chuckle at Tyson's noise of protest and the elbow that jams into his ribs.

“Shut up, loser,” the brunette says as he removes the blue oven mitts from his hands and drops them on the counter. “You know I was just fine with ordering in.”

“That would've made this whole thing more casual!” Nate argues, and not for the first time. “We need him to see we’re _serious_.”

“By burning up lasagna and having to call Luigi’s like the time we tried to make pasta from scratch?” Tyson quips, but he rests his hands on top of Nate’s.

“Your mom talked you through this and sent her recipe; it’ll be _fine_ ,” he mumbles against Tyson’s neck, planting a quick kiss against the skin there and moving to rest his head on the brunette’s shoulder. “And stop bringing up the pasta incident. That was _years_ ago.”

“You know I don't forget anything when it comes to you.” Tyson reaches back to pet Nate’s hair absentmindedly. The blonde’s arms tighten around his waist, and Tyson finds himself grinning. “I have time to shower, right?”

“Yeah, he's coming at eight,” Nate reminds him, trailing his mouth along Tyson’s shirt and pressing a kiss into his shoulder before he lets Tyson go. Tyson turns around to look at him, equal parts excited and nervous. “I took care of the rest. I just gotta run down to the convenience store to pick ice cream up, then we’re set.” He’s comforted by what he finds in Nate’s expression, the same excitement and fear mirrored right back.

Tyson gives Nate an obvious once over, smiling when the blonde quickly catches up and pulls an obnoxious, but handsome, face. He reaches upwards to fix the hair he mussed up and whispers, “You look good, babe,” voice impossibly fond. Nate beams at him, while his cheeks pink up and leans forward to catch Tyson in a quick but surprisingly firm hug.

“Thanks, dude,” Nate says, once he releases the smaller man from his hold. He moves over to put on the jacket he had left earlier on the sofa, shouting a promise to be back soon, and Tyson smiles at his retreating back before walking to the bathroom to clean up.

___________________________

Gabe shows up at exactly 8:05 pm, and by 8:10 pm, they’re sitting at the rarely used table by the kitchen, just big enough for the three of them. Tyson feels like he’s being overly cheesy, but he looks between the two of them, sees Nate chirping Gabe about his big forehead and the Swede shooting right back at him, warm and loose, and thinks he’s the luckiest man on earth. The meal tastes just like his mom’s, and his cheeks redden at the compliments Nate and Gabe are smothering him with. His feet bump into both Nate and Gabe’s socked feet, a gesture that’s so mundane, but that still makes his heart feel ready to burst out of his ribcage.

Despite their attempt to make this feel like a _date_ , the proper meal and clothes being worn, despite the nervousness both Nate and Tyson are feeling, it’s still ridiculously easy to be with Gabe, to interact with him. It also helps that, loose from the wine, Gabe keeps looking at them in that way that makes Tyson ache to _say it_ and hope for the Swede to take it in all in stride.

“Wanna help me load the dishes?” Tyson asks Gabe, holding up the empty wine glasses on his way to the kitchen sink. He passes by Gabe and places a hand on his shoulder, glancing down as he sucks in a quick breath before relaxing into it and nodding, making a move to stand up. He throws a quick glance at Nate, who’s visibly vibrating out of his own skin with joy.

Nate offers to get the ice cream, which prompts some insincere, smiling complaints from Gabe—“Why does he get to do the fun part?”—as he stacks the plates and silverware together. After a moment, he calls out, “Is there vanilla?”

His back is turned on Nate, so he doesn’t see the stupid smile that overtakes his face. Of course there's vanilla. There's everything Gabe likes, actually.

“I bought what everyone likes!” Nate settles for saying, instead of blurting out the words that have been on the tip of his tongue for weeks. He collects all three tubs (vanilla, mint chocolate chip, and strawberry) and grabs three spoons from the silverware drawer before he marches off to the living room, the noise of Tyson and Gabe bickering around the kitchen washing over him. He sets them down on the coffee table, lined up in front of the sofa Tyson and him usually hog while lounging around, and chooses a corner seat. Moments later, Tyson and Gabe walk in, the brunette quickly taking up the space next to Nate’s, but leaving enough room for someone else to sit down.

Gabe blinks at the open space next to Tyson on the couch where the pint of ice cream sits, then slowly slides his eyes over to the chaise lounge he’s more or less claimed over the past couple months. He plops down on the sofa.

Everything is going as smoothly as it ever does when it’s the three of them in whatever situation, conversation and banter flowing as they steal scoops of ice cream from each other until they hit a lull in the conversation, and that, while common when they get engrossed in their food, feels odd— like there’s something hanging over them. Gabe shifts on his seat a couple of times, fingers tapping on the side of his ice cream container absently. On the other side of the sofa, Nate clears his throat a couple of times and complains about having brain freeze, though his voice is too loud and too forced. Tyson forces out a giggle anyway, since he likes to be a supportive boyfriend even when Nate’s not being funny, and Nate sends him a small, nervous smile. His eyes slide to Gabe, afterwards.

It’s a couple of moments after when Tyson steals a spoonful of Gabe’s ice cream and bites the bullet. He says, “Hey, we wanted to talk to you about something,” and tries not to lose his nerve when the air gets thick. At his side, Nate licks the corner of his lips, chasing the strawberry ice cream there, but he also nudges Tyson until both of them have a clear view of Gabe.

Panic swirls in Gabe’s chest like a sudden storm. _This is it, then,_ he thinks,  _they realized and they want me gone_. They don’t look as mad or upset as he expected, though, which is— confusing. “Did something happen?” he asks, and his voice is a little weak. He clears his throat.

“No!” they exclaim in unison. “Well, _kind of_? But it's a good thing for us, I think.” Nate glances at Tyson, and Tyson nods a few times in a row.

“Okay,” Gabe says. “What is it?” There’s a lump in his throat and his back won’t unknot, even after he rolls his shoulders. His eyes drift over to where he left his coat, calculating just how many steps it’d take for him to make a run for it.

“Well, uh— we both noticed that you seem interested in us?” Tyson says, haltingly. He looks just as nervous as Nate does. “And we’re interested in you, too?” Tyson tries not to wince—he sounds questioning and unsure, and actually _saying_ the words is nothing like he rehearsed with Nate, nothing like the words he muttered to himself in front of the mirror—and all Gabe can do is gawk at them, opening and closing his mouth a couple of times.

“You guys are _what_?” Gabe asks, eyes wide and brows seemingly trying to reach his hairline. His eyes are filled with disbelief. “Seriously? Have you— talked about it?” _Are you sure I'm enough to make you take this chance?_ he wants to say.

Tyson and Nate’s hands are linked loosely and they’re nodding, looking nervous enough that it makes Gabe breathe easier. “We really do like you, and we want to try— all of it,” Tyson tells him, flashing the Swede a hopeful smile, the same kind of grin Nate’s wearing.

Nate clears his throat and speaks quietly, at first. “We talked about it _a lot_ — did you know Matt knows polyamorous people? Wait, no, _gross_ ; I don't want to think about him right now.” Nate’s face is sour by the end of his sentence, and Tyson shoves him while squinting at him. Gabe can't help but laugh, and all of the tense spots between his shoulders loosen just like _that_. God, it's such a genuine Nate and Tyson thing.

Gabe moves to set his ice cream down on the coffee table, his actions quickly followed by Nate doing the same with both of their pots before settling his hand on Tyson's leg. It’s been bouncing ever since this conversation started. “Are you sure about this? Like...” Gabe doesn’t know how to finish the sentence. He can’t stop looking at Nate’s hand on Tyson’s leg, settling him down. He wants to be part of this.

“We want to date you. Both of us do,” Tyson says, voice resolute. To his side, Nate nods, looking just as serious as Tyson sounds.

“I'm…I don't know what to say,” Gabe admits, but he thinks he’s smiling— he _hopes_ he’s smiling.

Nate grins a little, and Gabe squeezes his own hand so tight he feels a joint pop. _They want me_ , he thinks. _Both of them do._ “Tell us what _you_ want,” Nate suggests, leaning forward like he plans to devote his full attention to Gabe’s response. “Please don't think that we’re trying to force you into anything.”

Taking a deep breath, Gabe says, “I've been crazy about you both for months,” and there's an edge to his voice that makes Tyson inch closer and reach out to touch his hand, tentative. “I just never thought that— I never knew that— I don't know, fuck.” He pauses and takes a deep breath, his voice smaller once he speaks again. “I never thought you'd want it— this— too.”

“We _really_ do,” Nate assures him, voice so endearingly eager that it makes Gabe’s heart grow three sizes bigger. He glances at Tyson before he adds, “We've been talking about you long before we even realized.”

“That's…nice,” Gabe finds himself saying, unable to tame the smile that just seems to keep growing. The word hardly encompasses how exhilarating and perfect it sounds, Gabe being part of their chatter even when he’s not around to hear it.

“Do _you_ want to?” Tyson asks, and Gabe nods so fast and hard, his neck hurts a little.

“I mean, _yeah_ ,” the Swede says, now embarrassed, and Nate and Tyson smile at each other briefly after hearing him say so.

“We have so much to talk about— I know we need to sort out many things— but, man, I _really_ want to kiss you,” Tyson says, and Gabe’s heartbeat races. He sounds so earnest, and Gabe wonders if this is what he sounded like when he first asked to kiss Nate, if maybe things have changed— but he squashes that train of thought fast. The past doesn’t matter. All that he cares about is Tyson, Nate, and tonight. The rest can come later. Gabe looks at Nate, searching for any hint of hesitation, but all he finds is an open face, smiling at Gabe like he hung the moon.

Gabe arches one eyebrow as he looks Tyson in the eye now. “Well, then, come here,” he teases, not even sure of where here is, but overcome with the desire to hold both of them tight and never let go. He hears Nate snort, watches Tyson detach himself from Nate’s side before he plops down onto Gabe’s lap unceremoniously, and Gabe’s hands shift to grab at the back of his shirt, right along the hem. “ _Hi_ ,” Gabe breathes, staring up at Tyson’s face. Gabe can hear rustling by his side, and soon enough, Nate’s body is close enough to touch the both of them.

“ _Hey_ ,” Tyson whispers back, throwing his arms around Gabe’s shoulder, hands linking at the back of his neck, his eyes never leaving the blonde’s. The Swede can feel Nate’s sharp intake of breath when Tyson leans forward and presses his lips gently against Gabe’s. He closes his eyes, tightening his hold on Tyson’s shirt, and urges him closer, so roughly that Tyson slips off his lap a little— but Nate’s there, and he holds Tyson in place. “Oh my _God_ ,” Gabe mumbles, wonder in his voice. To his side, Nate snorts and Tyson smiles at them. He can have both of them— what the _fuck_.

Tyson’s insistent when they kiss again, his hands coming to cradle Gabe’s cheeks and guide him closer, like they aren’t close _enough_ with Tyson’s torso pressed up against Gabe’s and Tyson’s licking past Gabe’s lips. He’s aware of Nate’s eyes on them, knows he hasn’t stopped looking, and he thinks of all the times he watched Nate and Tyson exchange kisses.

After what seems like both an eternity and no more than a single second, Gabe inches back enough to take a deep breath. Tyson grunts, his patience apparently tried by Gabe needing something as futile as oxygen, and he chases the blonde’s lips. Gabe smiles against his lips, unable to withhold a ridiculous giggle when Tyson smiles back.

“Hey, it’s my turn now,” Nate says, his voice unsteady, and Gabe is feeling a little overwhelmed, but it’s good because it’s _them_. Gabe shifts to look at Nate now, and Tyson moves back a little to give them more space, his arms dropping from Gabe’s shoulders, but otherwise, he remains a solid, grounding weight on the blonde’s lap.

“There’s enough of me to go around,” Gabe replies, giddy. Nate laughs but wastes no time, placing hands on Gabe’s jaw and leaning forward to kiss the taller man. And now— _it makes sense how much they enjoy kissing each other_ , Gabe thinks, left arm gathering Nate closer, as if all of the places they are touching aren’t enough. Tyson was demanding with his kisses, insistent in a way that left Gabe willing to do _anything_ the older man wanted; Nate is firm, yet willing to give as good as Gabe wants him to, willing to go whenever Gabe wants him to. It's— exhilarating to think that he's allowed to have _this_ now. Tyson’s hands comb through both Gabe’s and Nate’s hair, and Gabe is too aware of the places he’s being touched, but he also no longer knows where he ends and they begin. It takes his lungs protesting for air for Nate to pull back, but he doesn’t go too far, just moves to lean his head against Gabe’s shoulder.

Gabe lets his head flop above Nate’s, swatting at him after he complains about Gabe having a “heavy forehead, man,” and lets his eyes drift to Tyson, who’s looking at them with so much love in his eyes that Gabe feels his heartbeat stutter. Tyson leans forward, until his body rests against both of them, just to touch his lips to Nate’s, a kiss that carries old and new love, and Gabe can only see them from the corner of his eye, but it’s enough— it’s more than enough. He’s happy to run a hand across Tyson’s back, happy to let Nate hold both of them up, a little. Gabe is just— happy with them.

 

* * *

 

The sun filtering through the curtains isn’t bright enough to be the sole reason why Nate wakes from his peaceful sleep, but it’s enough to make him let out a noise of protest. He refuses to open his eyes for a few moments, but the light is relentless, and the birds outside the window are now making enough noise to irritate him. He tries to roll over, to stop facing that side, but there are arms caging his waist that refuse to let him move, and then it occurs to him that his legs are tangled up with what feels like too many legs for one person.

Nate’s eyes flutter open and he blinks, eyes swarmed by the light blue curtains that match the darker blue walls before they drift to the the other side of the bed, to the image of Gabe pressed against Tyson’s back, his face partly hidden behind the brunette’s hair and his arm reaching out for Nate. Tyson’s mouth is open the way it always is when he goes to sleep _exhausted_  letting out the occasional loud breath, and his left arm is reeling Nate in. He’s mesmerized, and his heart seems to be trying to beat its way out of his chest. He tries to move his left leg this time and is met with a less than gentle kick to his shin and the furrowing of the other blonde’s brows.

Nate brings the hand that was resting over the Swede’s hip to his face and rubs at his eyes, blinking rapidly again, a smile slowly taking over his lips as his brain catches on what happened the night before. With wonder, he reaches over and touches Gabe’s hair, gently stroking it, while leaning over to press a short kiss to the top of Tyson’s head.

It’s never been about Tyson not being enough. It will never be. It’s the fact that Gabe filled in the space they didn’t even intend to leave open, and Nate can’t believe that this is his life now, that he gets to have them both starting today, and for however long he can hold onto them.

_Five more minutes_ , he thinks, lowering his arm and letting his hand rest where it was earlier, on Gabe’s hip, and creeping closer to Tyson. He shuts his eyes, the smile on his lips never leaving, and takes a deep breath. _Just five more_.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Konditori(et)_ : a combo of a cafe and a bakery in sweden.  
>  _Vaniljhjärtan_ : heart shaped shortbread pastries dusted with icing sugar and filled with aromatic vanilla custard.  
>  _Carl_ : Söderberg!!!


End file.
